


Swim Day

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2720009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Remember when I said that all my shit got burned up in the fire and Lucy volunteered to go pick me up some swimming trunks?" Matt says.  He steps reluctantly out from behind the wall, head hanging and hands poised protectively over his crotch. "I think your daughter has a sick sense of humour, McClane."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swim Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt "did you see that?"
> 
> * * *

"Jesus, kid, are you coming?"

John hears the muffled sounds of Matt's bare feet slapping on the tiled floor before the kid's head peeks around the corner of the wall. 

"This might have been a bad idea," Matt says.

John sighs. "You said you wanted to get in shape," he points out, "because, and I quote, 'it's pathetic that an old man can beat me in a footrace', end quote."

"I never said old man," Matt protests. "Besides, I wasn't at my best in DC, what with the whole terrorists trying to shoot me thing. I might have been a little distracted!"

"They were trying to shoot me too, kid, and I managed just fine."

"Yeah, but you're used to people shooting at you. It's practically a way of life for you! Get up, drive to work, get shot at, remove bullet with your teeth, pick up a loaf of bread on the way home—"

"And Linda said that swimming is the best therapy for your leg," John continues loudly, which experience has taught is one of the few ways to override the kid, "unless you like the idea of limping for the rest of your life."

"My physiotherapist is a sadist," Matt says. "She's got me doing twenty knee bends a session now. Twenty, McClane!"

"Barbaric," John says dryly. He shakes his head, glances over his shoulder at the pool. The mid-day stint at the rec centre is usually sparsely attended, and today is no exception – just the usual group of retired seniors doing leisurely laps and a couple of the guys still on rotating layoffs from the plant. He lifts a hand to Mike up on the diving board, turns back to see that Matt is still hovering in the hallway. "You scared of the water, or something?" he calls out. "You do know how to swim, right kid?"

"I know how to… it's not the swimming that… look, it's just…"

"Jeeeeezus Matthew! Spit it out!"

"Remember when I said that all my shit got burned up in the fire and Lucy volunteered to go pick me up some swimming trunks?" Matt says. He steps reluctantly out from behind the wall, head hanging and hands poised protectively over his crotch. "I think your daughter has a sick sense of humour, McClane."

The speedos – what little John can see of them behind Matt's concealing hands – are bright blue and leave very little to the imagination. John is suddenly very grateful that his own trunks are boxers and that the white towel he's holding is already casually draped to cover his own groin. He knows he should say something to put the kid at ease – "you're fine" or "you walk around my house out of the shower half-naked every damn morning" or something, maybe just roll his eyes – but his mouth is dry and his eyes are fixated on the tiny strip of blue spandex curving around Matt's slim hip. He jerks his eyes forward, finds that the look on Matt's face has changed from mortification to something that's more like… speculation. Shit. 

"C'mon," he says gruffly, dropping the towel. He turns his back and heads toward the water, maybe walking a little too hurriedly on the wet tiles, but it's worth risking a fall – even if it means reinjuring his shoulder – to get quickly away from that enticing view. "We don't have all damn day."

* * *

"Did you see that?" Matt shouts.

John pulls in slowly behind him, breathing easily. "Good job, kid."

"Kicked your ass!" Matt crows, arms still raised in the air in triumph. He lowers them long enough to slap at the water. "You may have been beat when it comes to running on pavement in a crowded city, sure. But put me in the water and I am a machine, McClane! I'm practically half fish, all right? No chance against me. No chance!"

John smiles and swipes the water from his eyes. The kid's so damn happy that he doesn't have the heart to tell him that he was taking it easy on him, that he could have pulled ahead in the race at any moment. Give Matt a couple three victories like this and he won't have to spend half an hour listening to the kid whine about inhumane torture devices every time he gets home from physio. Linda oughta give him a medal.

But he can't let Matt off that easy. "Yeah, good job," he repeats, "beatin' the guy with the bum shoulder."

"Hah!" Matt says. "That thing is almost healed, don't even… you know I saw you lifting that 2-4 of Bud the other day, right? Like it was practically made of Styrofoam or something. Bum shoulder. You are so full of shit, McClane."

"Matt," John says, "I got _shot_."

"You wanna talk about getting shot?" Matt says. "I still have shrapnel in my—"

The sound of the gunshot ricochets off the walls, sounding louder than usual because of the acoustics. Sheltering the kid is pure instinct. In the space of a second he's closed the distance between them, has pushed Matt against the wall of the pool and covered the kid's body with his own. He's reaching for his own gun with one hand before he remembers that they're in a pool in the goddamn rec centre, that he's practically naked for Christ's sake, and now he's put the kid at risk, Gabriel's men could still be out there no matter what Bowman and his damn flunkies say—

"Um, McClane?" Matt says. "I think it was just a car backfiring outside."

John jerks his head back, meets the kid's eyes. Which are really quite startling so close up, a deeper brown than he realized now that they're free of the shaggy brown mop that usually obscures them . He slowly lets his body relax, muscles unclenching one at a time, and only then does he let himself feel the press of Matt's lean torso against his own, the wiry muscles flexing in Matt's arms that aren't readily apparent when you look at his thin, wiry frame. He takes a breath and prepares to step back, mentally cursing himself as a dirty old man, berating himself for developing feelings for a damn kid who could never feel anything back for an old broken-down cop with—

\--and then he feels it.

John dips his head, looks between them for a moment before lifting his head and raising a brow. "Really, kid?"

Matt doesn't look the least bit apologetic, merely lifts one shoulder. "Can you blame me? You drag me here and then strip down to practically nothing and flash that barrel chest in my face! And then you start swimming and start tensing all those muscles and… Jesus, McClane, I've had to stop myself from forcefully tackling you and sucking water off your collarbone for the last twenty minutes!"

The thought of Matthew Farrell forcefully tackling him and making him do anything he doesn't want to do makes him smile, but when he imagines letting Matt _think_ he's got the upper hand? That might be something he could get behind.

He feels Matt relax against him. "So... you're not mad?"

He could pull away from the kid, push all his own burgeoning feelings back down where they belong. Reassure Matt that it's no big deal, that their relationship won't change because of a little – or not so little – hard-on between friends. Tell Matt he is still welcome to live in his guest room for as long as he likes, and pretend that he doesn't feel his own tell-tale twitch in his chinos whenever Matt stumbles from the shower with a towel slung low over his hips in the morning, or when Matt regales him with his latest government conspiracy theories over pizza on a Saturday night, or anytime Matt opens his mouth or looks at him or fucking _exists_. 

Or he could jump out of the plane without a parachute like he always does.

He leans forward and touches Matt's lips with his own. Sees Matt's eyes flutter open in surprise before the kid leans into the kiss. He keeps it light and brief, pulls back to look at Matt with a calm that belies the frantic beating of his heart.

"Oh. Wow," Matt says. "Hi."

"Hi," John says. Then he pushes away, splashes water at Matt's stunned, happy face. "Race ya to the other end of the pool!"

He's already taken two long strokes away when he hears Matt splutter behind him.

"That's not fair, I can't swim when… you've got the advantage on… Cheater!"

John makes it to the east end of the pool a good two body lengths ahead. He's still got his arms in the air when Matt slides in beside him, and by the goofy smile on the kid's face he's pretty sure Matt knows his elation is not entirely about winning the race.

He's gonna have to track down that guy with the wonky fuel injection system and send him a thank you card. And Lucy is definitely getting flowers.


End file.
